The Next Generation
by shades of gray
Summary: A Dread Pirate Roberts story, always thought that guy was pretty cool. lots of killing, bordering on PG-13 --- Next chapter is not going up untill I get at leadt five reviews w/ guesses on the author of those lyrics! (if confused, just read the story)
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I did not invent the characters used in this story. This story is a  
spinoff of the movie The Princess Bride which I take absolutely no credit  
for. The beginning includes a loose retelling of a scene featured in the  
movie, but all text here is original and in my own words. I do not take credit  
for the core of the story, because, being fan fiction, my work is based on it,  
but I did not create it. The basic theme during the second half (more or  
less) is my own. Basically, I do not take credit for anything seen in the  
movie or read in the book.   
  
  
Miracle Max listened with disgust to the loud rapping on the door.  
"Arrgh!" He thought out loud. "What's all the racket! Don't they know we're  
closed!?" He slowly shuffled across the room. If only he was young again,  
like he was in his pirating days. Ah, yes, when he bore the fearsome name  
Dread Pirate Roberts! The marauding bastard who took no prisoners! He  
recalled his former career fondly. But he had grown old, retired, handed  
down his title to another, and settled down to do miracle work.  
  
He stuck his head through window next to the door.   
"Go Away! We're closed!" he shouted grumpily, the shut the slider with a  
bang. The rapping paused, as if in surprise, but then continued, even more  
insistently. Horrible Humperdink! At first, miracle work had been alright,  
maybe even almost as fun as pirating. All he had to do was mix up a  
random tonic, and make a couple lucky guesses, and he was treated like  
royalty. But then that minacious iniquitous lousy slug Humperdink who  
dares to call himself a prince! - he paused mid-thought, letting out a long,  
forlorn sigh - fired him, and he was forced to continue his work as a  
peasant, underappreciated and over bothered. Once again, he opened the  
window and looked out.  
  
"I said, we're cl—OW!" Suddenly Max's whole had was yanked out of  
the window by his large nose. "Hey! What do you think you're doing??!!!"  
A voice with a heavy Spanish accent interrupted him.  
"We need a miracle and we need it now. We certainly don't mean to bother  
you, but if you don't offer your services and pronto, I'm sure Fezzik. . ." the  
skinny Spaniard standing in front of the door motioned up towards the giant  
standing next to him- "Would be glad to assist me in obtaining your help in  
a slightly more painful way. Now, your choice?"  
  
Miracle Max was dumbstruck, and more than a little annoyed, but he  
wasn't stupid. Grumbling, he opened the door and led the pair- wait, no- trio  
inside. The giant was roughly holding a young blonde man, who was  
hanging limply from one of his massive arms. Oh man, Max thought.  
"This isn't going to be cheap, you know," he assured the strangers grumpily.  
"How much do you have?" The Spaniard held out a small handful of gold  
coins. It was a fair amount, but still not more than half what he normally  
worked for, and a tenth of what he was paid at the palace. Pirating had  
brought in a still greater amount. If only he was young again . . . His  
thoughts trailed off a second time to his pirating days. However, he  
snapped out of it quickly when the giant, (was it Fuzzik the Spaniard had  
called him?) almost knocked a small lamp on the large wooden table  
between the group and Max over.  
"What sort of miracle do you want? Hurry up, get on with it. I haven't got all  
day." The Spaniard heaved the limp blonde onto the table. "He looks dead,"  
Max said blandly.  
"What a genius observation. I don't think I ever would have guessed. Did  
you know he was dead, Fezzik?" the Spaniard replied sarcastically.  
"Hey, I don't have to do anything for you. I never work for so little, so you  
better treat me like the respectable important person I am." Max knew he  
sounded stupid. His grey-white hair was unkept and scraggly, and his  
clothes were dirty and torn. Lately business had been slow, and hard.   
"Of course, my most sincere apologies. You are a good man to help us so  
graciously when you are closed."  
"Yeah, well, for the second time, what sort of miracle did you have in  
mind?" Miracle Max asked irascibly. He wasn't going to buy into this crap,  
and he wanted to know what the hell they wanted so he could decide they  
didn't have enough money for that kind of work and tell them to get out of  
there. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to have to do  
something with this dead guy. Maybe they wanted him to raise him from the  
dead. He stifled a small laugh at this thought. All the gold in the world  
couldn't get him to do that, mostly because it was impossible.  
"We want you to raise him from the dead." Just great. Max stared at the man.  
"And who might you be?"  
"My name is Inigo Montoya." the man said nobly.  
"Well, Inigo Montoya. Maybe you are not aware that raising the dead is  
extremely difficult and will require a much larger sum of money than you  
have just shown me. Un less you have a large sack filled to the brim with  
gold that I am not aware of I'm afraid I will have to ask you to leave. Good  
day." Max replied curtly, speaking quickly on a single note.  
"Wait, you don't understand! This man needs to live! He needs to rescue  
his true love from marrying Humperdink tonight," Inigo replied breathlessly.  
"Humperdink you say?" Max's ears perked up at the mention of  
Humperdink. "Let me have a minute." Max replied, and quickly examined  
the body on the table, the wheels in his head turning at a breakneck speed.  
The only thing stopping him from working at the palace was Humperdink. . .  
He needed the money. . . but the guy was dead. . . maybe. . . no, it couldn't  
possibly. . . but maybe. . . Max went over the detail again in his head.  
Everything clicked, it was a perfect plan, as long as the guy was just mostly  
dead. Max was no thickhead, you had to be cleaver if you were a pirate, so  
his plan left no gaps. 


	2. Chapter Two

Miracle Max watched and waved as his bothersome yet interesting customers walked  
down the road away from his house. His eyes gleamed as he thought about what lay in the path  
of  
the kingdom in the near future, and he felt younger than he had in a couple decades. His mother  
always told him that if he waited patiently, opportunity would come knocking. Well, it had,  
except  
this opportunity came banging instead of just polite knocking.   
There you go again, worrying and returning to your old grumpy self, Max told himself. Look  
ahead! Remember that once that blonde wimp takes that pill, the beginning will we begin! The  
world will be at war, turmoil and chaos will be everywhere, and Humperdink will be at loose  
ends  
trying to figure out a way to deal with it without losing face! It doesn't matter now, that your  
follower, the second to bear the fearsome, formidable, and honored title, died before he could  
name a third. The Dread Pirate Roberts has returned!  
  
Max returned to the warmth of his living room, thinking ambitious and triumphant  
thoughts.  
  
  
  
Fezzik, what do we do now? How long do you think it takes to work?  
"Well, uh, if its restoring him to full health after he's been nearly dead all day, I'd say it'll take a  
while."  
"We don't have a while, Fezzik!"   
"Well do you think that I can make it work faster?!" Inigo and Fezzik started arguing.  
Unbeknownst to them, the blonde's eyes popped open, and he sat there where he was, watching  
the two. When they both had their backs turned to him, he rose to his feet, and drew his sword.  
Skillfully and without warning, he swung the blade over Fezzik's head, missing by a fraction of  
an  
inch, and then slanted it's corse down to Inigo's height, where it came so close it took a lock of  
his jet-black hair with it. They both froze and fell silent. Inigo was the first to unfreeze.  
"Wesley! You're alive!" He was about to say more, but in a flash he found himself staring cross-  
eyed at the tip of Wesley's sword, this time just a fraction of an inch from his nose.  
"Never, ever address me with such lack of respect. None but those higher than me may call me  
Wesley. People like you, can call me by my proper title." Wesley said, his voice steady and soft,  
but freezing over with ice.  
"I'm higher than you," said Fezzik lightly, from a good three feet above Wesley's head. This time  
he found himself staring at the blade.  
"Think you're funny?" He left it at that. The sword did most of the talking.  
Inigo didn't know what to call Wesley, besides what he'd called him as long as he'd known him,  
which was just Wesley. Tentatively he raised a question.  
"Ummmm, er, Your, er, Your Utmost Highness?" he tried. Wesley threw a sharp glance in his  
direction.  
"When did you learn to be so, er, threatening, if you will, with your blade?" In a split second the  
sword was at his throat. Inigo babbled on, trying to cover it up. "I mean, it's such a great tactic. I  
know of no better way of making people obey your command and direction. You may want to  
use  
it more. Could you tell me where you learned that? Maybe I-" A second lock of hair fell to the  
ground as the tip of the blade was flicked deftly upward, grazing Inigo's ear. Inigo winced.  
"Shut up, wooden-headed Spaniard." It went on like this for a while, Inigo and Fezzik taking  
turns petrifying as Wesley brought his sword to rest a finger-width from their feces, throats,  
chests, and other various places. Bit by bit Wesley began to realize what was going on, mostly by  
gradually starting to pretend he was on their side. Bit by bit, also, they made a plan. Wesley was  
actually surprised  
at the stupidity of the two. It was a feat coming up with most of their ingenious plan without  
making it look like the vast majority of the ideas were his, which happened to be the truth.  
Finally  
they had figured out what was to happen next in order to enter the castle, and they took their  
positions. Fezzik and Inigo crouched down behind a wall, and Wesley darted to a hiding place  
behind a large oak.  
Stupid gits, Wesley thought to himself, as he watched them wait for his signal. Too bad for them  
that they didn't realize, they were much too dull to realize . . .  
  
Wesley slipped out from behind the tree, stealthily came up behind Inigo and Fezzik, and  
drew his sword. Who to kill first? he wondered. If he killed the Spaniard, the giant was much too  
strong, and he would not get a chance to kill him before he got crunched in half. But maybe not,  
after all, he was so stupid, he wouldn't be able to tell what in the bloody Hell was going on. So it  
didn't matter, Wesley supposed. I can deal with either of them, even if they do have a chance to  
give me trouble. And without another thought, he slew them both. 


	3. Chapter Three

20 miles off the coast in a small schooner, Peter Trepid sailed solo. Peter Trepid, known  
to all who'd met him as the Dread Pirate Roberts! He eyed the coast skillfully, figured the  
distance and the wind speed together along with the current pace of the boat, and decided it  
would be just under two hours before he could anchor and go ashore. If he'd navigated correctly,  
he should be just beyond the outer limits of the kingdom of Prince Humperdink. A fine place to  
make his debut, he thought as he nudged the tiller to the left, and the Dread Pirate Robert's  
return to infamy!  
  
In a few short hours, Peter was anchored, and rowing his dinghy to shore. Now that it was  
becoming a reality, his career as the Dread Pirate Roberts seemed a bit intimidating, especially  
on land. He was an excellent sailor, but not as sharp as the second Roberts. It would be hard to  
be as restrained and quietly intimidating. Peter's eyes scanned the horizon line out over the sea,  
then followed it back to the shore. Was that a light in that cave by the point? Victims! Peter  
thought gleefully. Just as soon as he had some dinner. . . Damn it all! He'd left all his food in the  
boat! All his scrawny little brain could remember to bring was himself and his sword. Disgusted,  
he stomped the hull of the dinghy. But then he realized: where there were people, their would be  
food. Perfect.  
  
Peter Trepid rowed the last few yards to shore, dragged his boat up on to the beach, and  
walked down towards the point until he reached the cave. He stopped just outside and listened.  
He could hear voices, and some rustling of clothes and papers. It sounded as though there were  
just two people, and judging by the voices, an old man and an old woman. Silently, he  
unfastened his sheath with his sword inside and slipped it down his pant leg, covering the bulge  
made by the hilt near his waist with his loose tunic. He walked to the entrance to the cave and  
peered in.  
  
Inside the cave was a single, small living area with a very large, flat pile of sand covered  
in a blanket in the corner. Peter supposed this was a bed. Next to it were two stumps, pulled up  
to a tiny wooden table with two good legs, plus one broken one. The third was completely  
missing and that corner was propped up by a niche in the cave wall. Sitting at the table was a  
very ugly, very old woman, who was busily rummaging through a huge burlap sack. Sitting on  
the floor was an equally ugly, equally old man, who was busily rummaging through some papers.  
"I don't understand it," he kept muttering to himself, over and over again. Finally the woman  
interrupted.  
"For the love of Pete old man! WHAT don't you understand!?!?  
"How I keep writing thee masterpieces, these books that will surely become classics, and no one  
will buy them! I could've, and should've put a stop to all our bumming around a long time a go,  
but no, no one seems to be at all interested in my skill.  
"That's because you have no skill," the woman retorted. "And besides, we're not 'bumming  
around,' we're living off the land, and doing a fine job at it!"  
  
By this time Peter had been standing at the door unnoticed for a long time. He cleared his  
throat loudly. The old, ugly people looked up simultaneously.   
"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed the old woman, hospitable at once. "I didn't see you there. Come in,  
come in."  
"I don't mean to intrude, of course, but it's just that I've sailed a long way, and all my food is  
gone," Peter said with a expression and tone of innocence, stepping into the dwelling and giving  
a slight smile. "Do you have a bit to spare?"  
"Of course. Sit down, make yourself at home."  
"Thank you, ma'am, but I'm comfortable as I am," he replied, trying to cover up the stumble in  
his tone as he realized the immobility the sword's hiding place gave him. "And, please, don't  
trouble yourself," he added as he watched the woman take out all sorts of fruit and vegetables  
and breads from her sack, and a steaming plate of crab from off a small table off to the side he  
hadn't noticed,  
"Nonsense, I've just steamed some crab, and I have plenty of fruits and veggies, breads and-Oh!  
I've just remembered the blackberries I picked." She hurried out of the cave. Peter followed her,  
and watched her scramble up onto the grassy knoll that was the ceiling of the cave. She picked  
up a basket filled with berries and scrambled back down and into the cave. Peter walked back in  
after her.  
"Really, a thousand thanks for your hospitality, but you needn't go so far. All I ask is a light  
dinner, and then I'll be on my way. I don't need anything for the road, nor a place to stat the  
night. I'm headed, uh, over to my uncle's for the night. He's not too far."  
"Are you a writer?" Peter looked down at the old man in surprise. He had sort of forgotten about  
him.  
"Why do you ask, sir?"  
"Well, your clothes are all a-shambles. Us writers have a hard time of it, we do." Peter looked  
down at his clothes, which were a bit worn from the journey.  
"Orford!" the woman exclaimed, shocked.  
"Don't mind," Peter assured her. "It's the truth, they are a bit worn," he turned to the man. "Not  
because I'm a writer though, because I'm not. Actually, they are worn because of my long  
journey  
on the sea."  
"Oh." the man. He looked a bit disappointed at the fact that Peter wasn't a writer.  
  
The man, Orford, returned to his shuffling of papers and jotting down of notes, and the  
woman fell silent as she continued to prepare some food. Peter's thoughts fell to pirating for the  
first time since he'd arrived at the dwelling of this odd, ugly little couple. Now that he thought  
about it, he couldn't wait to kill them, the first slaying of his return to the pirating kingship. How  
sweet it would be. . . No one but himself knew that there even was a third. They all had believed  
that when the second died, (Well, they didn't know he was the second, they all thought there had  
been only one, but that was beside the point) that that was the end of it all. No one knew that as  
the second Dread Pirate Roberts lay on his deathbed, he had appointed the next, none other than  
Peter Trepid, his much trusted first mate! Of course, Peter remembered, the first thing he'd done  
was kill off his crew. He'd never been one for followers or sidekicks; he preferred to work alone,  
mostly because it deducted from his own glory if he had helpers. So, he had sailed solo,  
marauding about foreign coastline, but all those who saw him died, so as it was he remained at  
large, then eventually, forgotten. But all that would change, yes, in a few short minutes, it would  
begin, and try as they might, once his terrific legacy was reawakened, not one person would be  
able to forget the name of the Dread Pirate Roberts!  
  
"Gloria!" Orford called impatiently. Is the food going to be ready before the next ice  
age?! Because the way things are going, the odds are getting worse and worse."  
"Give it a rest, will you! I realize you're hungry for dinner, but I don't see you going to the  
trouble to prepare it! In fact, if you must know it will only be a half-minute. Why don't you  
come sit down, and you as well- oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?" she  
inquired of Peter.  
"Oh, my name's Eric, uh, Eric Peters."  
"Well then, come sit down for supper. You men can sit at the table there, I don't mind sitting in  
the floor beside you." Peter tried to argue, but Gloria insisted. He walked to the table, just beside  
his stump, and removed his hat. He opened his jacket and stowed the hat in an inner pocket.  
Smoothly, when neither pair of eyes were focused in his direction, he reached lower and  
removed the sword from his right pant leg, leaving behind the sheath. Gloria walked over,  
carrying the plate of crab.  
"Alright, crab's on the table, bread's on it's-" Gloria never got to finish her sentence, thanks to  
the blade that plunged into her stomach. She let out a shriek of anguish, but it was cut short, just  
like her sentence had been, by the blade. This time it's landing spot was straight into her heart.  
She fell to the floor and crumpled in a heap. Peter glanced at the man. His eyes were screaming,  
and his teeth were chattering so loud you could hear them plainly from behind his tightly pressed  
together lips. Peter retrieved his sheath from his pant leg, wiped his sword clean of blood, and  
slipped it into the sheath. Turning to the man, he said:  
"The Dread Pirate Roberts takes no prisoners. So I am going to leave you here alive. I have two  
reasons for this. One is so you can spread the word that the Dread Pirate Roberts is back. The  
other is so you can relive that moment when you saw your wife die over and over again until it is  
your turn to leave this world. And given the agony you are sure to live in, you should hope that  
time comes soon. Have a nice night, and thank you for the food I will be taking with me on my  
journey." Without the tiniest struggle or even a single word from the man, Peter pocketed some  
bread and fruit, stuffed a bite of crab into his mouth, and left the cave.  
  
He stopped outside and leaned against the wall of dirt which the cave bore into. He shut  
his eyes tighter than he ever had before, and took a deep breath. Then without another thought,  
leaped nimbly to the top of the rise, placing his left foot on a foot hold halfway up, then stepping  
the rest of the way to land with his right. He pivoted to face the place in the sky where the sun  
had just set, not two minutes before, and began to walk.  
  
Victim count: 1  
  
Hi evry1!  
As you may have guessed by now, this is turning out to be kinda full of people dying. All  
contributing to the effect of the story, so I'm not gonna let up I don't think. . . wait and see.  
  
Thanx to Gothica Anne Riddle for this idea: whoever can figure out who (or what group, I'll  
take either) wrote these lyrics gets to appear in the next chapter! Happy guessing (you'll never  
get it.) Mwahahahahahahaha!  
  
From the dark side we can see a glow of something bright   
There's much more than we see here  
Don't burn the day away  
  
alright, I think I'll be a bit less cruel, her's another set of lyrics, easier to guess (same band):  
  
I never did a single thing that did a single thing to  
Change the ugly ways of the world  
I didn't know it felt so right inside  
I didn't know it at all  
Open up the curtains I heard sirens there the lights flash and crawl  
I did it justice I just did it for the buzz 


End file.
